


The upside to small town living

by Zomb13Cat



Category: Supernatural
Genre: First Time, M/M, Weechesters, Wincest - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-05
Updated: 2012-11-05
Packaged: 2017-11-18 00:43:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,344
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/555003
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Zomb13Cat/pseuds/Zomb13Cat
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It takes a moment for Dean to realize that this is really happening.  That this isn’t just a drunken dream, and he’s actually kissing his little brother, and against all odds Sam is actually kissing back.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The upside to small town living

**Author's Note:**

> As Always, all my work is un-betad because I'm a lone wolf. And by that I mean my pack kicked me out and I wander around alone and crying.
> 
> There's a slight amount of Het with an OFC, but don't worry it's doesn't get very far.
> 
> Honestly, I don't even know y'all. I've been up for the past 48hrs and this is what came out

Sometimes being a Winchester’s not all it’s cracked out to be.  Sometimes it’s boring, downright mundane.  They’re stuck in the middle of nowhere, in the middle of summer, and going completely out of their minds.  Dad’s off either cleaning out a nest of vamps or some local roadhouse’s year supply of Gin, and Dean’s left in charge with the usual instruction: _Take care of Sammy_.  Now normally Dean would be fine with the week(s) or so where he gets to be the boss and Sam has to do pretty much what he says, except the kid’s been acting extra strange lately.  And no, it’s not that Dean’s been paying extra attention to him since his latest growth spurt a few months ago.  It’s that Sam’s been extra distant and awkward lately.  It’s like he can’t quite fit into his own skin.  Sam’s been stumbling around his own coltish limbs, jumping at Dean’s touch, stuttering around his words, and blushing uncontrollably every so often.  It’s… adorable.  Okay.  So maybe Dean might have the _teeniest_ crush on his fifteen year old baby brother.  But, that’s normal, isn’t it?  They’ve lived their entire lives in each other’s back pockets.  And Sam’s a good looking kid- Pretty even –Dean’s a sucker for pretty.  Besides, it’s not like anything’s gonna come of it. 

“-tonight…” Sam snaps his fingers in front of Dean’s face. “Dean are you listening?”  

 

“Yeah, What?”  Dean has to resist grinning at the bitchface Sam’s sporting.  It’s one of his favorite expressions on Sam, it’s cute, not that Dean would ever admit to it. 

 

“I said there’s a Munsters marathon tonight.”  Leave it to Sam to get excited over vintage TV re-runs on a Friday night.  And _the Munsters,_ no less.  Is that considered ironic?  “What time do you get off of work?”

 

“Little bit after ten.” Dean’s been working the late shift at a local convenience/liquor store.  The pay’s decent, the work’s easy, and there’s always the chance that someone’ll try to rob the place.  He’s been itching to kick some ass.  Small town living’s boring and Dean can feel the inertia prickling underneath his skin, waiting to get out, one way or another. 

Sam nods understandingly and walks over to the pantry, pulls out a box of Lucky Charms off of the top shelf, and Dean can’t help but notice how Sam’s T-shirt; That old gray Zeppelin number that used to be Dean’s, worn soft and thin by over use, and clinging obscenely to newly sprouted muscle; rides up a bit with the movement, exposes a bronzed strip of skin at his lower back.

Dean stands up abruptly, leaves his half eaten sandwich on the plate in front of him, and groans out: “I gotta go.”  And he _does_ because suddenly his clothes feel too tight and the air in the room too thick.  The last thing he sees as he bolts out the door is Sam’s confused face as he asks if Dean’s done with his Sandwich.  And it _really sucks_ because Dean was really enjoying that sandwich, but staying entitles an awkward conversation on involuntary bodily functions and Dean’s not quite ready to go there yet.  So he bids a silent farewell to his pastrami and cheese and rushes out the door half an hour early. 

-W-

 

It’s 9:45 pm and the night’s been unusually dead for a Friday.  Even for a town so small that it considers the addition of a new Dairy Queen cause for celebration.  Dean flips through the pages of a _Hustler_ discretely hidden behind a _Weekly Auto Trader_ as the door chime interrupts the flow Hendrix’s _Hey Joe_ playing on the radio.  A minute or so later a couple of Ding-Dongs, a package of beef jerky, and a jumbo sized cherry slushie are dumped unceremoniously on the counter in front of him.  “Will that be all for you this evening?” Dean rings up the items, not bothering to look away from the centerfold of a cute little blonde in spiked heels and nothing else. 

“You’re gross.”  Dean can’t help but grin at the familiar voice as he looks up at his little brother’s disapproving face peering down at the contents in front of him. 

 

“Aww C’mon, Sammy.  The human body’s a work of art.”  He shoves glossy paper in Sam’s face.  “Worship it.” 

“Dean, Stop.” Sam pushes the magazine away, blush reaching all the way to his ears. 

“Fine.” Dean chuckles as he places the magazine back on the smut rack behind the counter. “Why are you here?”

“Can’t a guy get some snacks?” Sam emphasizes the point by tearing the package of jerky open.  Dean cocks an eyebrow as he pops open the register and extends his hand palm up waiting for the money.  Sheepishly, Sam gives him that stupid, crooked grin of his, dimples on display full force, and it’s not fair because he knows that that’s second only to the puppy eyes on the list of ‘ _things that’ll get me out of trouble_ ’.  Dean rolls his eyes and makes a big, annoyed, show of taking out his wallet before dropping a crisp new twenty in the register and shutting it after retrieving his change.  “You’re almost done, aren’t you?”  Sam asks pensively, gnawing on a strip of dry, peppered meat.

 

“Just about.”  The door chimes, signaling a new customer, and they both turn to admire the pretty brunette that just walked in the door.

 

“Hey, Dean.” She calls out in a bubbly, girlish voice as she makes her way back to the beer cases. 

 

“Hey Cindy.”  That’s not her name but Dean calls her that anyway because of the sexy little mole above her mouth that reminds him of Cindy Crawford.  Besides she doesn’t seem to mind, since she never corrects him.  The girl makes her way up to the register, several cases of the cheapest beer in tow and places them on the counter waiting on Dean to ring her up. 

 

“Hey, Cutie.” She winks at Sam. “And _who_ are you?”

 

“ ‘m Sam.” He gulps, stutters a bit as the girl –woman actually- eye’s him appreciatively. 

 

“My _little_ brother.” Dean lets out “He’s fifteen.” And it’s taking all his will power not to drag Sam into the back room and lock him away from prying eyes.

 

“Bummer.” She whistles before turning the leer back to the elder Winchester.  “So Dean, we’re having a party at Bo’s.  You should swing by.  You’re off pretty soon ain’t’cha?”

 

“Yeah in Ten.”  And really, he should be going home after work, but it’s been so long since he’s had a Friday that didn’t involve binging on junk food and ODing on Nick at Nite marathons, that he agrees without much thought. 

 

“Great, see ya there.” She winks at him before adding “Not you cutie, Bo’s the deputy.” And ruffling Sam’s hair before leaving.

 

“She knows you’re only nineteen right?” Sam’s voice is hurt and Dean tries not to look at him as he speaks.  He tries not to see the look of disappointment etched on Sam’s face, but he fails. 

-W-

The party’s loud and obnoxious.  Filled with a bunch of drunk people he doesn’t know and has no intention of getting to.  Dean shuffles through idle conversation with strangers as Cindy wraps an arm around his shoulder and giggles at something funny one of them says.  It all just feels out of place and he can’t help but not enjoy himself. 

Cindy inches closer to him, pressing her perky little tits against his shoulder and whispers, seductively batting her brown-flecked blue eyes, that she want to get out there.  At least the night’s not a total loss.  They fumble their way out back to her car and clamber ungracefully into the back; it’s pretty clean except for a couple of unopened bottles of bourbon and whiskey at their feet; And Dean shouldn’t really be sweating the minor details but for some reason he can’t quite seem to focus.  He peels off her shirt and starts working at her bra as she grinds against him and paws at him trying to get his belt unbuckled. 

“Fuck, you’re so hot.” She coos as she kisses him; her mouth tastes sour, like stale beer and cigarette ash; and emphasizes the point with a dirty grind of her hips. 

Dean’s heart is pounding like crazy.  Their skin is hot and damp.  The pressure’s intense.  It all feels… wrong.  It’s all so frustratingly wrong that Dean can’t help but gently push her back, mood all shot down to hell.  She pushes her long brown hair; _it’s the wrong shade_ ; out of her face and widens her big blue eyes; _there’s not enough gold in them_ ; in confusion. 

“I’m sorry, I can’t do this.” He hears himself say out loud, focusing on the tiny mole above her mouth; _it’s in the wrong spot_.

“Wha-wait-what?”  _She even stutters wrong_.

Dean clambers out of from the back seat; but not before pocketing one of the bottles of booze for his trouble, he is a Winchester after all; and fixes himself up all the while apologizing to the confused, half-naked woman.  He makes his way through the party, not really giving a damn about the dirty looks, because after all there are more important things waiting at home. 

-W-

The (temporary) apartment is eerily still as he gets to it.  All the lights are out and the only sound is the faint, static-y croon of Herman Munster coming from their second hand, ten inch TV complete with stolen cable.  Dean quietly; it’s second nature to make as little noise as possible; makes his way to the living room and idly stands in the door way.  Sam’s lying on the floor, clad only in a white pair of boxers and a T-shirt, distractedly gulping down mouthfuls of crimson sugar water; the slushie long melted by now. 

“Hey.” Sam turns wide eyed and startled at the greeting, and really the kid should be more careful about everything; you know the whole stranger danger and what not.

 

“You’re back.” And maybe Dean’s imagining things, but he sounds almost giddy. “Why are you back?”

 

“Party was lame.” Dean shrugs out of his jacket, toes out his boots and collapses on the floor next to Sam.  The gray and beige speckled, polyester carpet is rough and scratchy against the sensitive skin of his neck so he snatches one of the pillows from underneath Sam’s head. 

 

“Hey!” Sam complains with no actual heat behind it as Dean unscrews the pilfered whiskey bottle and offers him a drink as a sing of justification.

Sam’s less of a light weight than Dean gives him credit for.  It takes them four episodes and ¾ of the bottle; granted that was probably mostly Dean; before his words even begin to slur and his face begins to pinken. 

 

“So when does your doppelganger show up?” Dean ruffles Sam’s hair, resisting the urge to card his fingers through the long, silken strands.  Sam eyes him dubiously and Dean elaborates. “You know the thing with the hair, Uncle Thing or whatever.”

 

“ _Cousin It?_ ” Sam chokes out a laugh against the lip of the bottle, causing a few drops of the amber liquid to slosh down his chin.  Dean thinks it’s really such a shame for free booze to go to waste.  “That’s _the Adams Family_.  How do you not know that?”  Sam drops his head against the edge of his pillow with an audible thud.  Their faces are only a foot away from each other at the most and Dean swears he can count every single fleck of gold and green in Sam’s glassy hazel eyes. 

“Looks jus’ like you man- only better lookin’” Dean Shrugs and takes another deep swig from the bottle.  “ Yer both annoying as hell.”  When he turns back to Sam his face is sad, pensive.  All the spark is gone. 

 

“Do I bug you?”  His voice is barely above a whisper and it causes a pang of ache in Dean’s chest.  He feels his throat closing up and can barely let out the words. 

 

“How can you even think that?”

 

“You’ve been acting weird around me lately.”  _Dean_ _has?_ “Avoiding me and- I’m really sorry Dean. I know its sick but I can’t help it-“ Sam’s eyes look glassy for a completely different reason, his voice comes out shaky, like a repressed sob, and Dean’s head’s too fuzzy to comprehend the words that are spilling out.  He can’t be saying what Dean thinks he is, can he?  Dean takes a moment to look at Sam, _really_ look at him.  The bluish-white light from the television screen gives his skin an otherworldly glow,  his lips are stained red with the slushie’s artificial dye; his face is dewy and flushed ruddy because of the alcohol; and his hazel eyes are big and sparkling.  He looks angelic, or at least what Dean thinks angels would look like if they actually existed. 

Dean lets out a breath he didn’t know he was holding in.  He’s done repressing urges.  He cups Sam’s face gently, lets a startled Sam settle into the warmth of his palm, and lightly rubs the calloused pad of his thumb against the soft skin of Sam’s cheek.  Firmly, but not forcefully, he guides their faces together, giving Sam enough space for an out if he wants to take it.  Sam’s mouth tastes like cherry syrup and cheap whiskey; his lips are soft and plush; and- holy hell they’re _kissing_.  It takes a moment for Dean to realize that this is really happening.  That this isn’t just a drunken dream, and he’s _actually_ kissing his little brother, and against all odds Sam is actually _kissing back_.  The kiss is rough and uncoordinated and slightly sloppy and just so fucking _perfect_ that if Dean were just to drop dead this moment it would have all been worth it.

 

“Sammy, fuck I-“ _Can’t think.  Can’t stop.  Can’t breathe._   But Sam doesn’t let him finish because he’s pulling Dean’s T-shirt off none to gently.  Dean settles on top of Sam, and slots their legs together so he can feel the hot, hard length of Sam’s cock against his hip.  Dean cups him through the fabric “Fuck baby, you’re so wet.” Sam’s boxers are soaked through with precome, and honestly Dean’s not much better off but it takes longer to show through denim.  Sam’s stupid T-shirt suddenly feels a million inches too thick and Dean struggles to pull it off him because he needs to _feel_ Sam.  He needs to see him, needs to taste.

Dean works his way down Sam’s neck nibbling and sucking on as much of the slightly salty skin as he can.  He bites at Sam’s pecks, licks down around his dusky pink nipples worrying one nub to hardness and then the other.  Sam lets out a pretty, little moan that shoots down and pulses directly to Dean’s cock.  His dick is straining painfully trapped in his pants, but he can’t be bothered to relieve the tension when there’s so much of Sam left unexplored in front of him.  Dean works his way down Sam’s flat, toned stomach, licks in and around his belly button before following down the downy, soft patch of hair that’s aptly named a treasure trail.  Dean mouths around Sam’s swollen cock through the fabric.  Sam arches his hips in search of friction and that’s all the invitation Dean really needs.  He hooks his fingers under the elastic and unceremoniously pulls it down.  Sam’s stiff, flushed prick bobs up at the quick motion, slaps against his skin, leaving a wet, sticky trail of precome in its wake.  Dean gives in to the urge to touch it, rubs his thumb against the leaking head, pauses to look up at the way Sam screws his eyes shut.  His face is flushed and he’s panting heavily.

Sam lets out a slight whimper and that’s all it takes to have Dean swallowing down on the drippy, leaking head.  The taste is slightly salty and bitter-sweet, and Dean lets the hot, velvety skin drag across his tongue. 

“Fuck-Dean-God!” Sam gasps out and it’s enough to have Dean hollowing his cheeks and bobbing further down until Sam reaches the back of his throat.  He pulls back, relishing the stretch of his lips around Sam’s hard length and the slight pulse of each new throb of blood before he pulls off with a slight moist slurp.  Dean looks up at him, he’s breathing heavily through parted lips and Dean swears he can almost see his heartbeat pulsing in his neck.  He kisses down one of Sam’s trembling thighs and up the other, licking and nipping at the tender flesh as he spreads Sam open.  Without giving it much thought he sinks down and presses his tongue in a quick, broad stripe against Sam’s puckered opening.  “No-Dean-Fuck.” Sam’s entire body seizes and he tries to pull away, but Dean’s got him pinned firmly down.  Dean circles around Sam’s entrance, breaches it slightly with the tip of his tongue, and that’s all it takes to have Sam spurting all over himself as Dean suckles the slightly musky taste that’s all Sam. 

 

“Fuck Sam, you’re so beautiful.”  Dean swipes at the come on Sam’s stomach, the sight alone is almost enough to have him blowing his load in his pants. “All fucked out and-“

 

“Dean-“ Sam interrupts between heavy breaths. “Dean, please-“

 

“Don’t make me stop.” He begs. “I can’t-“ Couldn’t even if he wanted to. “I need-“ He _needs_ Sam.  Needs to be inside of Sam.  Needs Sam inside of _him._   It’s almost like they’re not complete unless they’re together. 

“Dean I want you-“ Sam continues, not paying attention to anything Dean is saying.  “I want you to fuck me.”

 

“God, the mouth on you Kid.” Dean has to cup himself through his pants to keep from coming on Sam’s tone alone.  “Have you ever…?” Sam shakes his head no, and Dean’s not sure he can handle this.  He wants to make Sam’s first time special, but he’s not entirely confident he can last much longer.  “Relax, baby boy, I gotcha.”  He uses Sam’s own come to slick the way, preps him for what seems like an eternity, until Sam’s open enough to take all of him and Sam’s own cock is hard and flushed once more.  Dean roughly shoves his pants halfway down his thighs and gently presses his cock against Sam’s small, virgin hole.  The head catches against the rim and Dean has to bite down on his lip hard enough to taste blood to keep from coming.  He pushes into Sam as gently as he can, stops when Sam winces from the pain which is nearly impossible since Sam’s burning hot and tight as a vice.  “You okay?”

“Yeah,” Sam gasps. “Move.” And Dean does, swallowing Sam’s next moan with a deep fevered kiss.  He moves with measured determination, angling his thrusts until he hits that sweet bundle of nerves that have Sam arching and wrapping his legs around Dean’s hips.  Dean’s thrusts pick up speed and Sam clenches around him with every brush to his sweet spot, and suddenly he’s coming between them, painting their chests in ropes of hot, sticky come, and urging Dean’s orgasm out of him.  One last plunge and Dean’s coming inside of his baby brother, holding him tight and marking Sam’s insides as _his._ They both stay like that, riding out the last of shared tremors, every sensation magnified, the gravity of the situation hitting them like buckshot full of salt.  It would be so easy to blame it on the alcohol, blame it on raging teenage hormones; Dean’s nineteen, he totally still has those; but they both know this isn’t that.  They both know this is something bigger. 

“Fuck it.” Dean kisses Sam, and it’s different this time: Slow, sweet, languid.  He doesn’t bother to pull out.  He’s never felt this whole before.

 

Yeah, sometimes being a Winchester is boring, downright mundane.  This isn’t one of those times. 

 

**Author's Note:**

> So this was my first time writing hard(er)core Smut, so I know it was probably horrible. But as always, comments and suggestions are loved.


End file.
